The Somber Side of a Scientific Mind. Christian Tyoder
the partially foggy windowpanes to the west, Abd and Hans saw shadows of neighboring houses projected on sparkling bright snow-covered backyards and realized that they started out the week with a sunny day. Slowly the men got out of their cozy, warm beds, took turns to wash themselves up, and quickly got dressed. One after the other, the travelers came downstairs and sat at the dining table.
Madame Jo came out of the kitchen wearing her usual apron made in Normandy. “Today is Monday. Local convenient stores will open only at noon. Can I offer you an omelet with mushroom, salted butter, strawberry jam, slices of bread, and coffee this morning?”
The two hungry men, having not eaten for over eighteen hours, gladly looked at Madame Jo. “Thank you. That is more than we can bargain for.”
Before finishing his first cup of steamy coffee, Abd turned to the old lady. “Do you know any auto mechanic in town?”
“Yes, Monsieur Langvin is a very popular mechanic in this area. His shop is on the other side of the river. Every year and about this time, he takes a couple of weeks off and goes to Provence to visit his daughter. Let me make a quick call to see whether he is still here at the moment.” Mrs. Bojeau walked to her antique oak bureau placed against the wainscoting kitchen wall, picked the white phone handset, and dialed while the two men were looking at her anxiously. She returned to the dining table with a chirpy voice. “You are lucky. Mr. Langvin is still in town until the coming Sunday.”
Looking at Hans, Abd’s facial expression instantly changed from anxious to relief.
“I think both of us will take a walk to his shop in a few minutes. May we temporarily leave our travel gear with you until we know exactly when we might be able to get our car repaired?”
“Certainly.” Perhaps at the moment she was thinking of her only son Jacque, a sales rep of Nestlé Company, who traveled by car all year round, covering almost the entire eastern third territory of France. If so, she must be imagining that similar misfortune could happen to him at any day. The two men stood up from the table, gathered the empty plates, cups, saucers, and dirty silverware, and then carried them to the kitchen sink while Mrs. Bojeau looked on. “You don’t have to help me clean the table. I am used to doing it myself to show to my son each time he comes for a visit that his mother is still capable of taking good care of him. Thank you anyway. Go to see Mr. Langvin. I will be here for the rest of the morning.” A couple seconds after, she added, “If you don’t mind the deep packed snow, I’ll show you the shortest and easiest way to get to his shop. The footpath starts behind my neighbor’s house to the right. It crosses the frozen creek, over a narrow ten-meter rusty steel bridge, then veers slightly to the left. Keep walking straight ahead until you approach a Virgin Mother shrine on your right. Make a quick stop there for a few seconds. Look slightly to your right, at about one o’clock on the watch dial. You will see a junkyard full of rusty automobile bodies and parts. This is Mr. Langvin’s property.”
The men thanked Mrs. Bojeau then got on the road. Twenty minutes or so, they were at the shop after wading through the deep snow that caused some shortness of breath to Abd. The only human in the large shed presumably was Mr. Langvin, they thought. He was in the middle of getting the woodstove going.
In a shivering voice, Hans asked, “Are you Mr. Langvin?”
“Yes, I am the person Mrs. Bojeau talked to on the phone earlier. What can I do for you? But first please take a seat on that bench. You will quickly warm yourselves up once the stove burns efficiently.”
The travelers replied almost in duet. “Thank you.” Abd clearly described to Mr. Langvin what had happened to his Citroën. He meticulously and sequentially went over in detail the various events leading to the automobile being out of commission.
The mechanic listened to him attentively. Not able to control his yawn revealing wide-gapped, malaligned teeth that he tried to hide by placing his hand nonchalantly over his care-neglected mustache, he cautiously uttered, “I have to see your car in order to know whether it has to be towed to a Citroën dealership or alternatively I could repair it myself.”
Mr. Langvin got up from his squatted position in front of the stove and signaled the visitors to follow him. They got into an old half-rusty and hastily repainted open-back truck and managed to navigate through the deep snow-covered unplowed roads, heading toward the Chaumont direction. Suddenly, Hans pointed to a lonely snow heap off the road on the driver’s side. He barely recognized that the Citroën was completely covered with fresh snow since they left it at the roadside last night.
Mr. Langvin parked his truck behind the abandoned vehicle, walked back to the rear of his truck, and picked up two shovels. He handed one of the two tools to Hans while keeping a calm face. “Would you mind giving me a hand? We will take turns to dig out at least the rear of the car before we can determine the problem.”
Approximately half hour later, the back of the Citroën was freed of the white stuff, but the bottom end still needed to be cleaned out in order for the mechanic to thoroughly examine the axle and the attached wheels. This was accomplished without much trouble by the youngest of the three, Hans. With his bare hands, Mr. Langvin wiped off the remaining thin snow layer on the axle and pointed out to the two men the abnormal position of the right rear wheel in relation to the axle. He asked Abd to try starting the engine. After a couple of key turns of the ignition, the motor started. Mr. Langvin attentively listened to the motor noise and took a deep sigh. “You are lucky. Only the axle and the right strut are broken. I can handle the problem without difficulty. But let’s get back to the shop. It is too cold here to discuss about the repair process.”
Once back at the shop, the three men warmed themselves up in front of the stove, now burning hot with glowing embers. Mr. Langvin reached over a small desk to get his fingerprint-oil-stained Rolodex. He found the telephone number he was looking for and made the call. He talked with someone for a few minutes then returned to the anxiously waiting visitors with the following explanation. “I have showed you the problem with your automobile that you are fully aware of. In order for you to safely get back on the road, the rear axle and the two struts, also known as lower control arm toe rods, need to be replaced. The car is an old model of Citroën sedan. I just got in touch with a junkyard owner. He agreed with me, it wouldn’t be easy to find a used axle and two compatible strut rods, but he will call back to let me know where he might be able to locate these parts, used but still usable. It might take a day or two to get a definitive answer, especially because the snow covering the parts needs to melt out a little before they can search for these suitable ones. Excuse me for a moment. I will be back in a few minutes and then you let me know whether you will opt to wait for the call or you would prefer to have the car towed to a dealership. The closest one is in Troyes. As you probably know, the towing is not cheap, and the repair cost at a dealership is more expensive. I have no problem repairing your Citroën as long as I have the right parts. Please think it over. Either way is fine with me. I realize that you need to have the car running as soon as possible.” Then he walked to the car he was working on yesterday afternoon.
In the meantime, Hans leaned his head toward Abd and murmured, “It looks as if he knows how to repair and service French vehicles of all ages and models. Hopefully, he will live up to his local reputation.”
“It is fine with me. I don’t think we have another choice.”
While waiting for further discussion with Mr. Langvin, the two large color frameless posters stapled to the sidewall near the shed’s entrance attracted Hans’s attention. He smiled when he recognized that he had seen identical posters in a New York car repair shop. The only difference was that these subtitled in French. One depicted a brunette girl in a bikini sitting on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle and the other in her high heels, also in a bikini, leaning to the driver’s side door of a Chevrolet Impala coupe.
As the mechanic was walking back to the stove, Abd looked at him, settled in his decision. “We talked over the situation and have decided to wait until we hear from the junkyard’s owner before we decide on another option.”
Mr. Langvin poured a freshly brewed cup of coffee to Abd and Hans, who patiently were waiting for the phone call. A complete quietness reigned inside and outside of the shed.